So life has flown off in a new direction. Working for Les was something I had tenuously hoped for—thought but barely dared to put into words. A few months ago someone asked what my ideal job would be, and I replied, to work for this organ builder I knew. It would be physical but usually not too heavy, not endlessly repetitive or soul-deadening, in a positive environment with someone agreeable, who would make his expectations clear and deal fairly. It would be interesting, but I could leave work behind and sleep easily. Now the unexpected good fortune has happened, I'm working for him, and it's all I expected or better. Nothing is certain for anybody in this life, and I'm not certain this job will always be sufficient for everything I need. But at least, at last I'm edging away from the verge of despair. Les has expressed repeatedly how well I'm performing. This is the fulfilment of many years wanting, struggling and healing. For the first time in living memory I feel pleased and competent about my situation, and can look at happiness directly without fear of it dissolving.
I'm also incredibly busy. Besides working at least 35 hours a week, I continue to volunteer at the queer library on alternate Tuesday evenings, rehearse with the Rainbow Chorus on Wednesday evenings, and look after Luke for 90 minutes on Thursdays after school. I plan to start attending life drawing classes on Monday evenings. All this comes, of course, on top of having two teenage daughters living at a distance, visiting a boyfriend on weekends, and maintaining ties with several other lovers and friends. Even two months ago I would have thought it insane. It's reminiscent of other life passages when I kept madly busy, during high school, then again as a new Christian in my 20s, when I needed to prove I was important.
This feels different. I have love. I have friends, and know where I stand with the people I care about. I don't need my parents, a church or anyone else to tell me I'm worthy or lovable. I'm not pretending, or running from anything (that I'm aware of). It feels like I can now "suck out all the marrow of life". I don't think I'm being overly idealistic or optimistic. I've spent the past decade learning to be content without any security, now all this goodness and confidence gets heaped on top.
The only thing missing is a plan for how to achieve my creative goals under these conditions. How important is this? Maybe not as much as it once seemed. Oddly, I've been reminded lately of a Bible verse I once memorized, from Paul's advice to the Thessalonions: "Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands, just as we told you." I am learning a new craft, unusual and complex, and it is close to the heart of music. I even like the repetitive parts, carefully disassembling one pipe after another and cleaning them, for hours on end. It is gentle, meditative labour. Maybe it is enough.
But I doubt it. This snow day has given me an opportunity to contemplate and take stock. All my life I have craved to create things of my own, of meaning and beauty. I probably can't neglect this desire long without inviting dissatisfaction and meaninglessness. Pilgrim's Cross still tugs at a corner of my mind, demanding to be written. For now it asks politely, allowing me latitude in which to establish my new lifestyle, but I imagine the demand becoming louder with time. And there remains poetry, drawing and photography resting quietly nearby, waiting.
For years I've known my most productive time is 3 to 9 p.m., but now those hours are rarely available. I may have to adjust my sleep schedule even further to rise early and write during the half-lit hours before work. Without neglecting my primary relationships, I must undoubtedly become more guarded and reclusive about my free time. I have tasted the wealth of solitude, and must not abandon it altogether.
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